Still as a statue, Rhys stood, hoping the fucking thing would find nothing interesting in his boots and slither back to the shadows. Instead, the snake began to move, curl around his ankle, and glide up his calf. Oh, Christ, it was twining around his leg and moving up toward his thigh. And then he felt it, the cool reptilian head pressing against his fingertips.
Calm, he told himself. Adders didn’t bite unless provoked. And if it did bite, the venom wouldn’t kill him. Sure, it would hurt like a bitch, and he’d have some swelling and pain, and maybe even dizziness and vomiting, but he’d live. That was provided the adder gave him only a warning bite. If it wanted to kill, then nothing could stop it.
The adder’s head was now pressed into the palm of his hand; then Rhys felt the swaying movement of the pointed tail seconds before it wrapped around the bronze wrist cuff. The next thing he knew, the snake was wrapped around his wrist, and its upper body was curling its way around his bicep.
The reptile’s beady black eyes looked into his, and Rhys stared back, wondering what the hell was going to happen.
And then he heard it, from some distant memory in the back of his mind.
“What does the Nathair, the adder, mean, laddie?”
“It is a sign of wisdom, Grandfather Daegan.”
“And what does it warn of?”
“That you must be prepared to shed something in favor of something greater and better.”
Was this adder ally or foe?
“Very good, Lucifer, you’ve secured the sacrifice.”
The gravelly voice came from behind, and Rhys whirled around, only to find himself bashed in the head. Taken off guard and off balance, he was spun around and was falling face-first onto the stone floor. With a crack, the side of his head hit the unforgiving stone, and a blanket of darkness began to descend.
Fleeing the temple, Bronwnn used the cover of darkness to run from the outer courtyard and into the sacred woods. A cloud obscured the moon, and the leaves of the tall oaks offered excellent cover.
Silently and carefully, she crept farther and farther away from the temple, making certain her footfalls could not be heard. Cailleach had spies everywhere, and Bronwnn had no desire to be caught outside the grounds—especially at night.
The temple had always been a prison to her. But among the trees of the Sidhe forest, Bronwnn found freedom in her nightly rambles.
When she felt she was far enough away, she slowed her steps. Deeper and deeper she made her way through the woods. Cailleach’s oidhche did not fly into these particular woods, for it feared the wyvern who dwelt in the nearby cave.
Taking a minute to catch her breath, Bronwnn lowered herself onto a smooth rock and inhaled the scents of the forest; pine and yew, the dampness of the grass, and the humidity that clung to the leaves. It was a familiar, comforting scent, and she leaned back on her hands and closed her eyes, allowing herself a few stolen moments of solitude.
This was her favorite spot, for here, on this very rock, her dream lover always came to her. Tonight was no different.
As soon as she closed her eyes, his image sprang to life—tall, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His chest was smooth and thickly sculpted. His arms were bulky with muscles, and on his left arm was a band of tattoos. He looked broad, primal—a warrior; an alpha.
There was a thin, black trail of hair that led from his belly, only to disappear beneath the waist of his pants. Her fingers itched to run through the silky-looking hair. Her nose twitched with the desire to scent him, to taste his skin with her tongue.
It was the animal in her that wanted it. The animal that made her newly maturing body heat and stretch with unbearable longing. Lying back against the cool rock, she stretched out until her arms were above her head, and the humidity that dampened the leaves of the tree moistened her gown. The wetness beaded her nipples, arousing her. She wondered what it would be like to feel the heat of his mouth around her nipple. What would it be like to feel him sucking, nipping, pulling her in deep?
On a sigh, she let herself drift away, opening her senses, and willing her dream lover to come to her. In spite of the dangers of falling asleep, Bronwnn could not resist the lure of being visited by him once again. She needed it; needed to feel him. She wanted to be desired; to be possessed—and soon she would be. Cailleach wanted her to mate with the wraith, who was surely her dream lover.
He came to her almost immediately. She felt him behind her, his hot, hard body pressing against her back. His arms felt like iron bands around her ribs, and his breath was sultry and erotic as it whispered against the shell of her ear.
Wordlessly, his large hands rose from her ribs to cup her breasts. She panted, pressing her bottom restlessly against him. She felt him, hard and searching against her thin gown.
Her breath squeezed in her chest as she felt the tip of his tongue tickle her ear. His fingers had sought out her nipples and were now rolling and gently pinching them. His breathing was faster, and he pressed his hardness against her bottom.
Unable to resist, Bronwnn cupped her breasts and kneaded them, pretending what she saw in her mind was really happening. Between her thighs she was slick, ready.
None of the other goddesses who were reaching their maturity seemed to be this sexually needy. She had heard none of them speaking of dreams or lovers. She doubted that any of her pious sisters touched themselves as she did. But the feeling of it, this primitive, overwhelming need, was unable to be denied.
Slipping her free hand beneath her gown, Bronwnn ran her fingertips up her leg. She was going to touch herself and pretend it was his long, strong fingers as she did so. The image of him came to her swiftly; so, too, did the scent of something new, something dark and earthy she had never smelled before. The scent aroused her, and her lover came to her in a way that showed his hunger. He was frenzied, aggressive, and when his hand ran through her unbound hair, he fisted the long strands and pinned her to the ground, his mouth capturing hers in a hard, drugging kiss. She moaned and clutched at his shoulders. He gripped her hair tighter, as if holding her still so she couldn’t push him away, but what he didn’t seem to sense was that she wanted him closer, his kiss deeper.
His tongue forced its way between her lips as he caught her breast in his palm and squeezed. He was breathing hard against her, his body taut with tension as his mouth descended lower, along her jaw, her collarbone, only to capture her nipple between his teeth. With his mouth and tongue, he played with her while his hand toyed with her other breast, pulling and tugging at her nipple as she writhed beneath him. Against her hip, he rubbed the length of himself against her. She felt the heat, the hardness—the sticky wetness that coated her skin.
His aggressiveness made her bolder, and she clutched at him, arching, giving him her breasts, and begging him silently for more. Her own panting breaths echoed through the forest, and the scent of aroused male filled her nostrils, awakening the animal inside her.
Her own fingers parted her sex, spreading the wetness, circling the nubbin of nerves that ached. She needed more—him inside her, filling her. She couldn’t wait, so she pleasured herself. With a low growl, he suckled her hard and moved his hand down her body until his fingers curled with hers. He growled again as he showed her what he wanted, her fingers plunging inside her. He controlled her rhythm, how fast and hard he wanted her to touch herself—which was fast, forceful, and deep.
He had never been this way with her, this hard and demanding. But she did not fear it—or him. She only wanted more. And when he shoved her hand aside and slid his thick fingers into her, she cried out and accepted him, and the way he filled her.
When he used the pad of his thumb to circle her clitoris, she spread her legs wider, allowing him in closer. Feeling his breath on her skin and smelling the sheen of sweat on his only built up her desire, until she was digging her nails hard into his shoulders.
His beautiful eyes fixed on her, holding her steady with his ravenous gaze; then he pulled his fingers from her, brought
them to his mouth, and tasted them. She felt as though she could hear his thoughts. He wanted to watch her take him into her mouth. He wanted her to know his taste, to watch her suck and lap at him.
Bronwnn was on fire. She ran her hands down her body, cupping her breasts, then lower, to her thighs, watching him track the progress of her fingers. She spread her legs wider, hoping he would put his powerful shoulders farther between them, set his mouth to her core, and taste her with his tongue and lips.
In her sexual frenzy, her fingertips grazed too close to the mark on her leg she always tried to avoid. With a gasp of alarm, she snatched her fingers away, but instantly her lover melted away and the other, hated images were upon her.
They were dark and disturbing images of a woman who had symbols carved onto her body. Her nipples were red and swollen, and she was moaning. And then she saw him—the flash of black, the hood covering his features—and she pressed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to stop the vision. But she knew better. She couldn’t stop it.
Inside her, she felt the evil, the scent of death and decay. She felt him, the Dark Mage, as surely as if they were the same person. She heard his thoughts, the cruel, biting taunts. And then she saw her dream lover—on top of a stone altar. He was tethered, naked. And there was a blade placed directly over his heart.
She tried to wake up, but it was futile. The vision never left voluntarily. It wasn’t hers to command. Covering her eyes with her hands, she rocked back and forth, but it kept coming in waves. Images of blood and ancient Celtic symbols, chanted incantations, and the acrid odor of incense washed over her. And then, the black hood fell back, revealing the mage’s face.
With a jolt, Bronwnn woke to her surroundings. She was breathing fast, the remnants of the vision making her tremble. Unsteady, she rose to her feet, and her eyes searched through the forest. It was quiet and still. Reeling from the vision, and from the sexual need that made her body tremble, she jumped down from the rock, landing far below on a winding path that led to her sanctuary.
The mage had sensed her, too. She was certain of it. There was a connection between them, some cursed bind that allowed her to track his movements, and she was not naive enough to believe that it was one-sided.
She must run and hide. Later, she would try to determine whether her vision had been of the past or of the future. Right now, she must take care of herself.
The change was smooth and painless. She simply had to think of it, and it happened. Now she was safe. The mage would not find her like this, not in this form, for she was no longer a pale-haired goddess, but a white wolf.
Groaning, Rhys felt himself being picked up and hauled up over a shoulder like a bag of flour. His head was swimming, and he felt as though he might vomit. And he hoped he did, right down the back of the bastard’s robe.
He couldn’t think through the pain and the dizziness and the beckoning darkness. But Rhys knew he had to or else he’d be awakening to the singing of a chorus of angels, his body carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Through the double vision, Rhys saw that they had left the lit corridor and turned left. There was only one sconce to light the path. Shadows played on the walls, and Rhys strived to stay lucid and conscious. In order to escape, he’d need to know which way to go.
His captor’s boots scraped against stone. Rhys bounced against his shoulder. They were descending an ancient staircase. Above him, Rhys saw catacombs. It was a crypt of sorts.
Suddenly he heard a noise—a moan. It sounded like a woman—a sexually aroused woman.
“Look what I’ve brought you, lovely.”
Raising his head, Rhys saw a woman tied down to a stone slab. She was naked and marked. Her skin was bleeding, and there were bruises on her body. She trembled, her nerves flickering. “Yes,” she whispered as her gaze looked him over. Arching her back, she lifted her hips, showing him what could be his. “I want him inside me,” she murmured. “Please,” she begged. “The ache. It’s growing.”
From the darkness beyond where the woman lay, another sound, this one of chains, echoed in the silence. “Not again,” came a deep, distraught voice. “I beg you . . . Not another. I cannot bear it.”
“But you will,” his captor commanded. “Over and over, you will bear witness to my rise. You will watch my power supersede all powers.”
What the fuck was this? Where was he? Still under Velvet Haven? Rhys had never fathomed that below the mansion were catacombs. One thing was for sure—he had to find a way out of here before he became this psycho’s next sacrifice.
None too gently he was pulled down, his body slammed onto a hard, cold slab. Something shackled his wrists and ankles, and he fought to free himself. Raising his head, he saw the black leather straps that held him down.
“You son of a bitch,” he roared as he struggled to pull free of the bonds. But the mage just laughed, a demonic sound that echoed around them.
Next, his clothes were stripped from him. Rhys felt the cold blade glide against his skin as his shirt and jeans were cut away.
“Very nice,” the mage murmured as his palm traced over Rhys’ chest. “You will make me a lovely skin suit.”
“Fuck you,” Rhys spat, still struggling. If this murderer took Rhys’ body, he would definitely have the upper hand. Keir, Suriel, and perhaps even Bran would fall victim to this psychopath. He would be able to move among them with ease, pretending he was Rhys. He couldn’t let that happen.
“What’s this?” The mage lifted the end of the torc. “Ah, Celtic. A warrior people. Fearless in battle, and as fiercely spiritual as they are bloodthirsty.”
Rhys tried to look into the hood to see the face of the mage. But the hood was deep, and the shadows in the room made it impossible to see.
The mage bent low over him. “Are you spiritual, Rhys MacDonald?”
Rhys tried to bite whatever his teeth could grab hold of, but the mage pinned his head back against the stone with one strong hand on his forehead.
“I know the look in your eyes. It is not fear, but rage. You boil with it.”
Rhys opened his mouth to tell the bastard what he truly thought, but he found something shoved in instead. It tasted vile, and he spat it out. The mage laughed again.
“You amuse me. Your strength revitalizes me. You will be a powerful offering. And because you are so worthy, and you have not once begged for me to spare your life, I will keep your soul—and your flesh.”
The hard pit was shoved once more into his mouth, and this time, the mage’s hand clamped down on Rhys’ jaw, forcing him to keep it inside.
“Thorn-apple.” The word was whispered to him. “And incense. No ceremony is complete without them. You’ll like it. It’s a potent hallucinogen and aphrodisiac.”
The room suddenly began to stink of a cloying aroma, and Rhys gagged, both from the stench surrounding him and the taste in his mouth. But in mere seconds he was hallucinating, seeing images through a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes whirling before his eyes. Beyond him, the moans of the woman and the sounds of chains seemed to grow distant as a vision began to coalesce before him.
He felt his body grow warm, then hot, as the picture took shape. He saw himself taking a woman, one hand clutched in her hair, the other cupping and squeezing her breast. She was full and soft, and he wanted to suck her, taste her. Taking her mouth, he plunged his tongue between her lips, tasting her. She moaned, and his cock grew thicker, harder. He needed to bury himself inside the pussy he could smell and feel, so hot and wet between her thighs.
Her hands flew to his shoulders, and he tugged her hair harder, clasping her to him. She couldn’t push him away. He wouldn’t let her. Claiming her, he kissed her harder, taking her, and then he felt her nails digging into his shoulders; he felt how her body did not strive to get away but instead got closer to him, and his hunger grew more rabid.
Breaking off the kiss, his mouth traveled lower, inhaling her scent, feeling her soft, supple flesh against his lips and tongue. He moved lower,
searching for the pink nipples he wanted in his mouth.
His vision swam, a profound sense of sexual need and hunger swamped him, and he bit down, capturing the erect nipple between his teeth, then rolling his tongue around the swelling tip. She cried out in pleasure, her body arching against him. The feel of her, all soft curves against him, made him shove against her, rubbing his cock against her hip.
Consumed now, he tasted her, sucking, nipping, while his other hand played with her breast. He was aware of her hand, lowering between their bodies, then the scent of her sex parting. With a growl, he told her he liked it, that he wanted her to play with herself. But he wanted to be part of it, too.
Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he used pressure to show her what he wanted, her fingers in her cunt pushing in and out as she thought of his cock pushing deep inside her. She moaned, and he wondered if she would make that beautiful sound when he slid into her.
He imagined it, shoving his cock into her, pounding against her as he held her by her hair and watched her come beneath him.
Unable to wait any longer, he shoved her hand away and sank two fingers into her core. She was hot, wet, and so damned tight that he felt his cock begin to leak.
He couldn’t come yet. It was too soon. He wanted more. He needed to feel her for longer; to listen to her sounds that aroused him so much. Whatever poison the mage had given him made him feel as though he could fuck all night and never tire, never stop taking her.
Moving against her, he shouldered his way between her thighs. He was panting, sweating. He could smell the scent of her sex; he wanted to run the tip of his tongue along her seam and circle her clitoris. He wanted to suck on her, to spread her wide, to eat every inch of her. And when she smoothed her hands over her voluptuous body and captured her breasts, shoving them together, he imagined going down on her, watching as she played with her tits as he ate her. Pulling his fingers free, he licked them, tasting her at last as she watched him. She was not afraid of him, or of his desire. He saw that in her eyes. In his mind, he saw her taking his cock and tasting him, too.
Mists of Velvet Page 9